Renewal

Here's a little haiku for your Sunday afternoon:

I wish I could pull

Off the dead parts of you, like

Brown leaves from a plant

Childermas

I've not posted in a while as I've been busy with other things. Here's a silly little post-Christmas poem to get things going again:

On Childermas,

we dance,

flat-footed

on frozen

platforms,

to keep

out winter’s bite.

Run ragged

from days

of joy –

verbum caro

factum est –

we pass

through carriage

doors and out

again to life.

Break up

To be clear, this is wholly fictional. Husband and I are fine!

You can screw me

in the kitchen.

It’s the best

we can do.

We’ve wrecked

the rest

of the house already.

We’ve torn down

the curtains,

spattered the paint

with our venom

and our bile.

We’ve ripped the sheets,

smashed the chairs.

We’ve cut a swath through our

once happy home. I’ve

called you names I can’t take back.

You’ve looked at me with

eyes full of spite.

We’ve robbed each other

of the will to love.

Now here we are, ready

            to come crashing down.

           

I’m exhausted and delirious.

You’re breathless

and bruised. We’ll peel off

each other’s

sticky clothes and lie down

            here

among the mess we’ve made.

There’s no fight left in me.

Let’s make this one the last.

We’ll have one more throwdown

before we call it quits.

We’ve raved and we’ve screamed

and we’ve shredded

everything that was good.

Now we’ll ravage each other

in the middle of the ruin

of our domestic bliss.

There’ll be shards of crockery

in your back,

and bits of glass

in my thighs.

And then, before it stops,

there’ll be the shells

of broken eggs, clinging to your palms,

and smears of burst fruit,

heaved against the floor,

congealing, sweet

between our stomachs.

And then we’ll fall asleep, wrung out

by the violence of our ending,

and I’ll wake up,

and you’ll be gone.

All the world is conquered

All the world is conquered,

And the stubborn stain of

Revolution rubbed out.

Who are you? I’m

A question unasked.

I’m dry river beds, I’m

Bleeding tongues. I’m

Crumbling walls, I’m

Shrivelled fingers. I’m

Empty eyes, I’m fraught,

I’m chaos, I’m naked.

I’m the shame of the shameless.

I’m a million ghosts, I’m

Nothing in return. I’m

Another voice, another

Face, another no one to forget.

I’m fresh oblivion, day

By day, I’m the sign of the cross.

I’m a shapeless spectre, I’m

A shadow, I’m a pall. I’m

The pill you never swallow,

I’m the cure and I’m the cause.

I’m the scream and I’m the silence,

I’m nothing at all. I’m

The devil in the detail, I’m

A body in the street. I’m

Close to death, I’m

Still alive. I’m flower petals

Crushed underfoot. I’m

The sweet scent still hanging

In the air, I’m the stench

Of decay. I’m withered, I’m

Rotten, I’m shiny gold. I’m

Resignation, I’m resentment.

I’m what’s left behind.

All the world is conquered,

And the stubborn stain of

Humanity rubbed out.

Song

A tragic song will swell

In your breast, my love,

And the tears will

Blossom in your TV-lit eyes

And all the thousand thousand

Dreams of the thousand

Thousand thousand lives

You thought you’d have

Will come swimming up

And you’ll weep, my sweet

Because none of them are yours

But I’ll be with you

Just the same, my heart

A thousand thousand times

I’ll grasp your fingers

Just as tightly as I can

Lie down beside me, dear

And put your hand in mine

I’ll wrap your dreams

In pretty paper, and we’ll

Open them one day

And I’ll sing your song

And we’ll weep together

Because I am yours

And you are mine

End of Days, part IV

“These are the end times,”

            you said,

and I thought

            you were joking, 

            until

you flipped on the TV

news, and said,

“Look at this.”

And then

I believed you.

Story

This is what one might call a flash poem. Completely unedited, totally off the cuff:

Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am not a perfect thing,
nor shall I ever be, but
this - this is what I am.
And do you understand that?
Can you claim to count
the heats that simmer
under my ruined skin?
I am all at once a star
and the absence of light,
exploding, fading, rising
falling. Do you see?
I am unacceptable, but
still such a simple fit
that I go unseen.
Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am come for my judgement
and you'll hand it out
freely, without pause.
Do you come back at all
to think of that?
Can you be ever other
than what you are?
I am wrong, wrong, wrong -
the word that, no matter
how you say it, is always
wrong. Do you hear it?
It's there, singing and
screaming in a million
million voiceless voices
under my eyes.
Shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?
I am full of this nameless
compulsion, words that beg
to leave my body, and you -
who gave you permission, love?
You have it, though.
King of the castle, ruler
of all you survey. You get
that, don't you?
I am nought but earth, beneath
your booted feet. I am nought
but guts to spill, and hands
to be rapped for their great sin.
You, most powerful, you, most
holy, have me in your thrall.
You, most wise, do you even
know?
I am answers to questions
you never asked. I am
wretched, but I am unafraid
at least.
And shall I rehearse for you
the story of what it is
to be this?